


Let Me (English version)

by kirin_calls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Dildos, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Phone Sex, Vibrators, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirin_calls/pseuds/kirin_calls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm reposting this story after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie">MagdaTheMagpie</a> was so kind to smooth out my translation of the first four chapters and translate the last two! So after you all had to wait an eternity I can finally post this story as a whole! Thank you, Magda! <3</p><p>+++</p><p>The first four chapters were originally beta'ed by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat">Megabat</a></p><p>+++</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6238336/chapters/14293792">German version</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Let me see...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagdaTheMagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/gifts).



> I'm reposting this story after [MagdaTheMagpie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie) was so kind to smooth out my translation of the first four chapters and translate the last two! So after you all had to wait an eternity I can finally post this story as a whole! Thank you, Magda! <3
> 
> +++
> 
> The first four chapters were originally beta'ed by [Megabat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/pseuds/Megabat)
> 
> +++
> 
>  
> 
> [German version](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6238336/chapters/14293792)

John is completely exhausted when he gets out of the brightly painted cab that stops in front of the building number 221B in Baker Street. He stretches extensively while the driver opens the trunk and takes out his black suitcase. A tortured sigh escapes John as he slams the car door shut and spots the colourful _traveltonewzealand.co.uk_ advertisement displayed on the side of the vehicle. He didn’t notice it before when he got inside, but considering his thirty-hour flight, such a thing was probably to be expected.

John’s neck, back and joints feel like they have been put through a meat grinder and replaced with rubber. Eyes and throat are sore from the dry airplane air, and the pressure on his ears has not yet subsided. Thanks to a whimpering toddler in the row right behind him, John wasn’t able to sleep a wink the whole flight. Wretched and deeply exhausted, he picks a few pounds from his wallet and hands them to the driver, thanks him and pulls out the handle of the suitcase to pull it over the pavement.

The last ten days, which were supposed to have been a two weeks holiday, felt more like a nightmare. Well, the first five days had been relatively pleasant. They had spent a few nights at the home of Bob and his wife Adelaine, exchanged stories, were shown around Wellington and had shared some excellent food. John had been particularly intrigued by the meals cooked in an earth oven. However, Sarah was not impressed. She considered it dirty and was therefore satisfied with the typical English dishes that could be found on every street corner.

After leaving Bob and Adelaine to settle in a hotel, the mood had only become more strained every day. It was absolutely not a problem with the hotel, since it was clean, well equipped (huge pool, excellent spa, friendly staff) and the view from the fifth floor was breathtaking. However, their shared holiday in New Zealand, those fourteen days without a single chance to avoid each other, hadn’t been good for them.

"We have nothing to talk about!" Sarah nagged one evening while jumping from the bed, slipping into her shorts.

"But I’m talking all the time!"

"I can _no_ longer listen to it, John! It’s Sherlock this and Sherlock that – it’s unbearable! You’ve no other topic of discussion! You don’t even notice when you are talking about him! When I ask you something, the response most likely has something to do with Sherlock! Sherlock thinks! Sherlock told me! _SherlockSherlockSherlock_!"

"That is not true."

Yes, his denial could be called half-hearted at best. John knew that Sarah wasn’t wrong. John knew that Sherlock was fascinating. John knew there was nothing and no one he liked to talk more about. And why not? Who didn’t like the crazy adventures of the clever and world's only _consulting detective_? The source of inspiration for his blog! Well, obviously, Sarah Sawyer.

Thereafter, the mood had cooled by the minute, until John thought he heard ice crunch in her every word. At first, John didn’t dare open his mouth again, but soon, he completely lost interest in even trying. Of course, that was another thorn in Sarah’s side and they had one hell of a fight, which eventually ended with John changing the booking of his flight for an exorbitant sum and returning to London four days early.

Now, standing in front of the black door with the golden numbers and the knocker askew is like a balm on John’s ill-treated soul. His mobile had given up during the long flight and the stopover in Singapore had offered no opportunity to charge the device, so that sending a - thanks to roaming charges - overpriced message to Sherlock which would have announced his return early had been impossible. Judging by the ecstatic tingling in his belly, John is a little bit excited about being able to surprise Sherlock.

For a ridiculously brief moment, John ponders whether to heave the suitcase upstairs, but he decides against it. After a few hours of sleep and a good meal, he would see to this detail. Surely, Mrs Hudson would understand. John pushes the heavy suitcase into a corner of the entrance hall so it doesn’t get in the way, and climbs the seventeen steps to the first floor. The door is ajar. John enters the sitting room and a smile immediately appears on his lips. Only then does he realise how much he’s missed this dusty mess.

The flat looks exactly like it did when he left. With the small addition of some files which suspiciously look like they belong to Scotland Yard (which Sherlock hopefully received from Greg and didn’t nick), and a couple of empty teacups lying around. This can only mean that Mrs Hudson, who usually takes care of the inexorable chaos when John is not at home, is either visiting her sister for a few days or that Sherlock has scared her away. Hopefully not the latter. John would have to grovel to excuse the uncouth behaviour of his flatmate because Sherlock probably doesn’t even understand what he might have done wrong. But in John’s opinion Mrs Hudson is vital for the survival of the two men living here and she must therefore be handled with care. He makes a mental note to drop by her flat tomorrow at the latest and check if everything is in order.

But first, Sherlock is due a proper greeting. However, it turns out that he is neither in the kitchen, nor in his room. The door to the latter is merely ajar. Strange. Sherlock usually closes it carefully before leaving the house. The room is messier than usual. Sherlock’s chaos is normally limited to the other rooms, but now a couple of drawers are open, clothes hanging out or lying forgotten on the floor. The bed is unmade, the duvet kicked carelessly to the foot. Everything indicates that Sherlock had a major sulk paired with devastating boredom. Despite the three cases which lie on the sitting room table.

Not a good sign.

A surge of panic rises in John’s chest at the thought that Sherlock could have turned to another form of _entertainment_ , which might require a drug test. Helplessly, he clenches his left fist. He digs the mobile out of his pocket, curses at the sight of the lifeless screen and is just about to climb the stairs to his bedroom when he hears a muffled moan of pleasure. John’s stomach suddenly clenches into a tight knot. A hot wave of arousal flows through his limbs and tingles up to the very tips of his fingers. His mouth is bone dry all of a sudden.

Although a voice in his head is hysterically yelling _nononono,_ he sets one foot in front of the other, consciously avoiding every creaking inch of the steps with frayed nerves and sneaks upstairs. Another audible gasp makes him jump and freeze. John opens his mouth to silently suck air into his constricted lungs, and then continues with tentative steps. His eyes are fixed on his room’s door. It’s ajar. There is a thin strip of yellow light from his bedside lamp where the gap is, but that’s all he can see. Impossible to take a look inside without opening the door further.

" _Oh_..."

John bites down on his lips so hard that he almost makes a pained sound. His body is completely confused. On the one hand something similar to anger simmers in his stomach because his roommate is apparently having sex in his room. (Is anyone else in there with him? For God's sake, please let him not be having _S.E.X._ with a stranger in my bed! And certainly _not_ with someone I know!)

On the other hand the rational part of his brain registers his increased heart rate, the faltering breath, the sweaty palms, and finally the fierce pull in his groin. The long flight’s fatigue throbs somewhere behind his temples and tries in vain to regain his lost attention. Attention that is now completely fixated on the bright gap, which seems to be calling to him, so very promising. Like the moth to the light, John climbs the last three steps without making a sound. A small – obviously totally perverse – part of himself is a little proud of this achievement.

Standing directly in front of the gap, the angle is still wrong and John still has no direct view of the bed. What he can see is in the mirrored door of the wardrobe that Mrs Hudson had left him when he moved in. John’s heart skips. Just stops beating. Conks out. That must be because all his blood single-mindedly pools down between his legs and lets his cock swell so fast, it inevitably reminds him of his teenage years. Another passionate moan from inside the room jerks his body out of its current state of shock and lets him gasp for air. Meanwhile, the sight that greets John’s eyes in the mirror etches itself into his retinas.

Sherlock is kneeling naked on the bed with his back turned to John. His legs are spread wide. The view of his erect penis and tense testicles is unhindered, the entire area shaved smoothly and alarmingly intimate. To have his arms free Sherlock's upper body is resting on his chest and shoulders. Bracing his right wrist on his butt, tense fingers are clasping the wide end of a flexible object protruding from his arse. It’s a black dildo, shimmering wet in the lamplight. Stunned, John observes as the hand’s movements seamlessly transfer to the dildo; as it smoothly slides into his body and out again; as choppy breaths and wanton sounds writhe from the man’s throat.

The muscles in his arm constrict as Sherlock pushes the dildo deep into himself again, letting so much desire coursing through every fibre of his body that he struggles to keep his uncomfortable position and not tilt to one side. Even his toes are so tense that they cling to the loose sheets. The sphincter stretches obscenely around the black silicone. The play of light on sweaty skin is overwhelming. Sighing, Sherlock turns his head to the side to breathe more easily. Between his pillow and wild curls John catches sight of a red mouth, the beautiful bow of sensual lips.

Startled, John pulls his hand back. It had migrated over to his very prominent erection which was trapped in trousers that were now far too tight. Touching himself while watching his bloody roommate masturbate definitely oversteps boundaries, and John will not and cannot overstep those boundaries. At least not now. He is aware of the fact that he will not be able to forget these images; that they will follow him until he gives in to the urge – and beyond.

" _Oh ... nnn_ ..." The sigh echoes shamelessly from the walls of his room. John watches as the free left hand that previously helped to balance out the fragile equilibrium emerges, fumbling under the lithe body of his flatmate. Almost timidly four fingertips slide over the soft skin of the testicles, roll and tickle them casually. They move on, closing themselves around the erect penis, agitatedly pushing the foreskin over the swollen glans. Over and over again. Without great finesse the pumping motion steadily speeds up while the hand on the dildo pauses, holding it convulsively in place. Sherlock's breathing accelerates rapidly; his whole body is stretched like a cat about to jump on its prey. When he comes his left leg upsets the balance by stretching itself. Seeking support, he pushes his face deep into the pillow. Most of his loud groan is swallowed, but not nearly enough to lessen its effect on John.

Pure ecstasy flashes through John's body, bites fiercely into his groin and makes him hold his breath laboriously. Somehow, he manages to break away almost at the same moment and rushes down the stairs without stepping on a creaking spot. Quick-witted he reaches for his black jacket with the leather patches on the coat rack, darts to the front door, dives out onto the street and closes it quietly behind him. It’s too warm for the jacket, but whether this is due to the outside temperature or the heat that has been building up inside him is impossible to say. Thinking about it at the moment is out of the question. Red-faced, he folds the jacket over his lower arm and presses it against his belly, which has the beneficial effect that the bulge in his jeans is sufficiently covered.

With sure steps, he rushes towards Regent's Park. Only when he reaches a remote area with a waterless fountain does John succeed in stopping his blind flight from 221B. He walks over to a bench and sits down. His hands and legs are still shaking so violently that the rational part of his brain spits out the words panic attack. Incredulous, John shakes his head, props his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. (This is anything but panic. I know how panic feels. Ok, it _is_ panic, but... different. Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuck_.) He can’t even explain why he didn’t leave sooner. Why he didn’t pull the alarm bell earlier and do a runner when he first realised what was going on.

The images of Sherlock as he writhed on John’s bed and moaned lustfully replay unintentionally in a loop in John's mind. Every detail he was able to see from his hiding spot is indelibly etched into his memory, every sound burned into his tympanic membrane. How can he go back and face his roommate? Even if Sherlock hadn’t heard him, if John has succeeded in escaping from the apartment unnoticed... his roommate is _Sherlock bloody Holmes_. The man from whom you can hide absolutely nothing! However, at the moment even a blind man would most probably be able to deduce John’s dilemma.

And then John realises that his suitcase is still standing in the entry hall and that it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that John has witnessed everything.

 

*

 

After two hours of aimlessly walking around, John returns to Baker Street with his tail between his legs. On his wrist dangles a plastic bag filled with boxes from their favourite Chinese on the corner. A little peace offering, even if he cannot imagine that his gaffe will be so easily forgiven. He pushes the door open, enters and instantly realises that his suitcase has disappeared. Gulping down his nervousness, he goes upstairs and pays careful attention to – unlike before – meticulously tread on _every_ creaky step that is known to him. Announced in this way, he enters the sitting room.

Sherlock sits cross-legged in his Le Corbusier chair. Fingertips posed, prayer like, in front of his mouth, his elbows propped up on the armrests to each side. He wears a simple, anthracite-coloured suit and a white shirt. His hair is still a little damp from the shower, but tamed compared to before.

"Hey, Sherlock. I brought food." John smiles self-consciously and goes directly into the kitchen to avoid the storm-blue eyes.

"You're back early. Did you have a quarrel with..." Sherlock wags his hand in the air as if it would help him to remember the name, "Betty?"

"Sarah," John corrects automatically and cannot resist a silent laugh while digging out boxes from the plastic bag and putting them on the kitchen table. "Let's just say ... we didn’t get along as well as I originally thought."

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and started looking for dishes in the wall cupboard. "Just say 'Yes, we had a fight.' instead of trying to describe the facts with nicer words." He puts plates and spoons on the table, sits down and picks out the wooden chopsticks from the bag. John does the same, breaks them in two and places them deftly between his fingers, so that he can pick up a dumpling from a box.

"Yes, we had a fight. Satisfied?"

Sherlock nods appreciatively. "She doesn’t suit you anyway," he murmurs and shovels fried noodles from another box onto his plate.

With his mouth full, John looks at him across the table. He swallows the chewed mush with great difficulty, then hastily drinks some water. (Then, who’d suit me, you manipulative bastard?) Sighing quietly, John helps himself to another dumpling on which he chews leisurely.

"I’ve brought your suitcase upstairs by the way."

John chokes a little and coughs into his fist. Ginger is burning in his throat. "Thanks," he manages to say and reaches for his glass.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "You’re welcome."

 

*

 

When they are done with dinner, John wishes Sherlock a good night and goes upstairs. The staccato of his heartbeat vibrated in his throat. At the top of the landing, he pushes the door open, anticipating a completely devastated room. He hesitates for a couple of seconds before entering.

Everything is back to normal. The bed is freshly made, though not quite up to John’s usual military precision. No ominous sex toys have been left behind. No signs of vandalism or Sherlock's unorthodox experiments. John can’t help himself from taking a deep breath in relief.

The suitcase stands alone in front of the dresser, like a loyal friend. John takes out the charging cable and plugs his mobile in. He changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt; folds back the duvet and pauses for a moment. His gaze is fixed on the white sheets, which appear so unreal and innocent when he thinks back to what has recently happened here that he doubts it happened at all for a second. He glides both his hands over the fabric, eventually crawls under the duvet and presses his face into the fluffy pillow. It smells clean – like detergent and an unknown softener. Mrs Hudson probably changed the brand.

John is a little disappointed.

 

+++ 

_... your true nature._

 

 


	2. Let me hear...

Nothing unusual happens the following days. Apparently, Sherlock hasn’t realised John caught him in his bed. Or he decided to act as if it had never happened and hasn’t said a word about it. John is fine with that. He also pushes out of his mind the question of why Sherlock was masturbating in his flatmate’s bed, of all places. He already has enough to deal with now that he has to spend his remaining holidays at home where it's near impossible to avoid Sherlock. However, the clinic would not be a better alternative, because then he would have to face Sarah. Therefore, the idea of searching for another job becomes more and more attractive.

In the afternoon, John sits in his chair by the fireplace, flipping through the thin newspaper pages. He clears his throat quietly. The clacking sound of the laptop’s keyboard drills a hole through his ears and makes him peek over the edge of the paper to look at his flatmate. Sherlock is typing an entry for his blog about twenty different kinds of silk and how to differentiate them. At breakfast, he had delivered a long monologue on the topic, which John hadn’t dared interrupt. He tells himself that he just wanted to avoid an acerbic retort from the man, but in reality, he just wasn’t ready to admit that he was completely fascinated by Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock can talk for hours – and does so with great pleasure, if one lets him – and to be distracted that way is to play with fire. If Sherlock realises his audience has tuned out his voice, then he would have to suffer through episodes of extreme sulk and an almost unbearable silence in the apartment, which would unnerve him more than the continuous flood of information. There just seems to be no middle way between these two extremes.

"You've been staring at me for three minutes and twenty-three seconds now, John. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?" Sherlock asks serenely without moving his eyes away from the monitor.

John clears his throat once more and jolts the newspaper to cover his face again. "No, nothing."

Sherlock gets up, sighing loudly, steps over the coffee table and lets himself slump onto the couch with a theatrical swing of his dressing gown. The silky blue fabric pours in cascades over the table, slides slowly across the smooth surface and piles up in a sad heap on the floor. John’s eyes land inevitably on the white strip of skin revealed between the grey T-shirt and the baggy pyjama bottoms. With his legs pulled up to his chest the curve of Sherlock's arse is shown at its best advantage and John swallows hard. (Damn it.)

The fact that John hasn’t touched himself once since his return, and that thanks to the constant fighting, not much has happened between him and Sarah during the holidays, it doesn’t help at all. Whenever John intends to pleasure himself, images of his completely naked and ecstatically moaning flatmate pop up in his mind and put him off his game entirely. He just cannot masturbate to the idea of having sex with Sherlock! (No way!) The little, innocent voice in his mind, which claims that fantasy is merely fantasy and one wouldn’t be punished for such trivialities, is ignored vehemently.

After all, this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. Who, if not him, would be able to read John's depraved thoughts and consequently kick him out in sheer outrage? John probably wouldn’t succeed in finding another affordable, well located flat in London again any time soon. He folds the rustling newspaper and gets up, peers questioningly over Sherlock's shoulder. Eyes half closed, Sherlock scratches absentmindedly at the fabric of the backrest of the couch.

"Tea?" John asks and heads towards the kitchen. However, Sherlock doesn’t respond. John rolls his eyes in resignation, grabs the kettle and fills it. A few seconds after he’s turned it on, its characteristic sound fills the room. Humming John takes two cups from the cupboard, removes the cleaned teapot from the drainer by the sink and fills some loose Darjeeling into a tea strainer.

"You shouldn't be drinking black tea at this hour, John," the deep voice suddenly sounds close behind John. He flinches and turns around.

"Bloody hell! I didn’t hear you coming. Do you have to startle me like that?!"

A fine smile plays around Sherlock’s pale lips, a spark of mischief in his greyish-blue eyes. He is obviously very pleased with John's reaction. (Bastard.)

Sherlock reaches for the cups, but John snatches his away and protects it at the other end of the kitchen.

"You will never get over your jet lag if you don’t sleep at night, John."

"Look who’s talking!" John chuckles and reaches for the kettle, which has just switched off. Steam and the bitter smell of tea engulfs him.

Sherlock shrugs indifferently and puts his cup back into the cupboard.

"I don’t need much sleep. Besides..." Sherlock pauses as if he’s suddenly decided not to say the rest of the sentence. He shakes his head despondently and turns away, goes back to the sitting room and curls up on the couch.

John observes the retreat and frowns.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" he asks skeptically. He pours himself a bit of the hot brew and follows Sherlock. After placing the cup on the desk, he leans against it and crosses his arms in front of his chest, waiting.

"Nothing. Recently, I’ve had nightmares, often, and I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a time. It will stop, eventually..." Sherlock says indifferently.

"Hm... what kind of nightmares?"

A distressed sigh escapes Sherlock's lips. It isn’t clear whether it’s the question that annoys him or the topic itself. However, John knows that Sherlock rarely mentions something that doesn’t actually bother him. "I dream of what happened at the pool."

"Oh."

"Hm," Sherlock grunts affirmatively, "So much was at stake."

"It’s quite normal that you would have nightmares after facing a situation like that. Look, I still dream about the war... you can’t process these things overnight. If you want, I can prescribe you some sleeping pills."

"It's fine," Sherlock says and reaches for the lapel of his robe to pull it closer around himself.

"Well... just let me know if you need anything from me." With these words, John takes his teacup and pulls a book out of the shelf, goes back into the kitchen and sits down at the table. Maybe, he hopes, Sherlock will manage to sleep for a bit.

 

*

 

Later that night John lies in his bed with his phone and scrolls listlessly through various websites. He is in this strange state that oscillates between bone-tired and wide-awake. The bluish light of the display is burning in his eyes, his limbs are heavy, and his breathing is calm and steady. But in his head there is a veritable riot. One thought follows another, all jumping around and refusing to be grasped. He feels like his mind is trying to work out several things at once and nothing is making sense. His mind is buzzing like a beehive. It is almost unbearable. John wondered absently if this is what it felt like inside Sherlock’s mind all of the time.

The springs of the mattress creak under John as he repeatedly turns from one side to the other. When his bladder turns against him and he feels the need to pee, he folds back the duvet, grumbling, and swings both legs out of the bed. He goes downstairs in the dark and switches the light on in the bathroom. After he’s used the toilet and washed his hands, he drinks a glass of water in the kitchen. He refills the glass and takes it upstairs.

Back in his bed he reopens the web browser on his mobile. It is now three o'clock in the morning. Chewing on his lower lip, he scrolls through the videos offered on a porn website and clicks randomly on a couple of short clips. The audio is turned down and barely audible, just loud enough so that he can hear the moans of the women whose oversized breasts jump over the display. John likes breasts, but today the sight causes nothing more than a tired tingling in his body. (I shouldn’t have drunk that bloody tea!)

His cock is only halfway erect when he takes himself in hand unmotivated and begins to stroke. With heavy eyelids he stares at the recording, but notices how his mind wanders off repeatedly. The arm that is holding the mobile slowly falls asleep and becomes numb. Resigned John lowers it to the duvet, closes his eyes and gives in to the blurry ideas that his brain converts into images. Although his cock doesn’t really play along, the friction slowly is sufficient to let a pleasant feeling flow through his limbs. His breathing accelerates, his pulse pounds in his ears. His mind produces an image of a soft, supple female body and makes him sigh silently.

The ringing of his mobile finally yanks him out of his fantasy. Startled he reaches for it and studies the display. Sherlock. (What the ...?!) Agitated he swipes his thumb over the surface to answer the call.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John's voice is rough and a little bit unsettled. On the other side he hears rustling and rushing as if Sherlock had the mobile in the pocket of his coat and accidentally called John’s number. Is he out? In danger? Maybe even seriously wounded? "Sher ..." John interrupts himself as he hears frantic breaths this time. They are definitely sexual. John’s stomach convulses and tingles. His mouth is suddenly very dry. A quick glance at the display confirms that the call is actually from Sherlock.

Sherlock must have dialled the number by accident – there is no other explanation. While he lies in his bed and... (God...) Everything else is simply unthinkable. John swallows hard. Without any help his subconscious provides him with fitting images to the sounds that seep through the mobile into his ear. Sherlock, lolling naked on his bed, long finger wrapped around his rock hard cock and arching his back in sheer ecstasy.

" _Ah_!", comments the device supportively. John clings to it with both hands, trying to keep his uneasy breathing away from the microphone so as not to give himself away. He has rolled to the side, hiding himself almost completely under his duvet as if that would help, while listening to the moans of pleasure. Meanwhile his erection pulsates painfully in his tracksuit trousers, not pleased at being ignored.

Tense John listens to the various sounds. The sliding of fabric (Sherlock’s wriggling body or just the mobile?), the sighing and moaning, which is sometimes louder, sometimes quieter as if Sherlock is throwing his head from one side to the other. Then a smacking sound that John, despite the distorted transmission, instantly recognises as rapid sliding of wet hands over an erection.

"... _Hnnn ... ah ... yes!_ "

John knows that he should hang up, that he is once _again_ crossing their boundaries. It’s unthinkable that Sherlock would agree to be observed or overheard in these intimate moments and yet ... yet John can't bring himself to end the call. As he presses the mobile against his ear with his left hand, the right one slips under his waistband and wraps around his stiff penis. At first he doesn’t move his arm, instead he pushes his hips forward and thrusts into his fist. In a mixture of despair and sheer lust he rubs himself in his firm grip. Pressing his face into the pillow, he stifles any telltale gasps.

What would he give to see Sherlock's face as waves of arousal crash over him as he comes? Drunk with bliss and detached from this world.

Hip and hand are working in tandem now. John feels how his climax is approaching. It builds up warmly in his groin and announcing flashes jolt through his limbs. Only with great difficulty does he manage to ride the crest and wait for Sherlock to give him a signal. In anticipation of the final act, he grits his teeth and shuts his eyes.

As Sherlock’s breathing becomes more erratic and ultimately falters for several long moments, John accelerates the movement of the hand on his own erection, purposefully stimulates the frenulum and the glans just the way he likes it and comes almost at the same instant as Sherlock. The loud groan on the other side of the line hits him marrow-deep. He bites into his pillow not wanting to let any sound slip over his lips, even if the dark rumble that vibrates in his throat is probably audible to the whole neighbourhood. His body convulses repeatedly and sets all neurons aflame while ejaculate is splashing over his hand and against the fabric of his tracksuit trousers.

"John..."

The phone slips from John's hand and bounces over the mattress. ( _Fuckfuckfuck_!) Panicked he grabs it and pushes the red button on the screen to cancel the call. Panting, he rolls onto his back and crosses his arms over his face. His lungs greedily suck in previously denied oxygen and transport it into his deprived cells. (Did he hear me?! God, please no!)

Restless, John wipes his hands on the tracksuit trousers and sits up. Shaky from the adrenaline and simultaneously tense with panic he listens for any noise outside his room. Would Sherlock want to talk with him? Confront him? Yell or - even worse - laugh at him? For several minutes he stares into the darkness, but nothing happens. No banging doors, no creaking steps.

Taking a deep breath, John lies down again and pulls the duvet over his shoulder. His heart is still pumping blood through his veins faster than necessary. It takes time before he is able to relax and sleep eventually catches up with him.

 

*

 

The next morning instantly awakens a feeling of enormous guilt in John. He’s not even opened his eyes yet that his stomach churns, sending panic in small doses through his system. It's a mystery to him how he’s supposed to face Sherlock without flushing crimson or wanting to curl up and die. He really would like to sneak out of the house and hide somewhere until it’s all water under the bridge.

He sighs on account of this senseless mental image and gets himself out of bed, picks some clean clothes from his dresser and goes downstairs to the bathroom. Fortunately he doesn’t encounter Sherlock on the way, he’s probably still asleep or hiding in his room due to this embarrassing situation. In an indecisive moment, John stands in the bathroom and listens, but he can’t make out a sound through the glass door that leads to Sherlock’s room. Only slightly relieved, John gets under the shower and washes himself thoroughly.

That done, he makes tea and prepares scrambled eggs with bacon, toasts a few slices of white bread and arranges everything on two plates. Actually, this is more of a cherished Sunday morning ritual, but today it feels like a helpless attempt to make amends. Moments later, Sherlock's door opens and his rather tousled looking flatmate, lured by the smell, shuffles into the kitchen.

"Morning." Wrapped in a white sheet Sherlock sits down at the table and immediately reaches for his teacup to gulp down its contents thirstily.

"Morning ..." John replies with a husky voice and drops his gaze. With restless gestures, he pushes the chunks of scrambled eggs over his plate. Only occasionally does a piece finds its way to his mouth.

"So..." Sherlock says eventually when his plate is half empty and he’s already having his second cup of tea, "I think we need to talk."

John freezes on the spot.

+++

_... your voice._


	3. Let me make...

"So, I think we need to talk."

The sentence hangs above their heads like the sword of Damocles. John’s lungs feel constricted. He's holding his teacup with both hands, trying to focus on the heat that radiates off the thin porcelain.

"Okay," Inwardly, John is bracing himself for the inevitable. The end of their friendship and their life together.

"I think you should resign," Sherlock says in a serious tone and takes a sip of his sugary milky tea.

"What...?"

"Seriously, John, the work in the clinic is distracting you too much. Since we receive money for solving cases, it is financially unnecessary for you to have to work. Of course, I’m aware that it pleases you to play doctor ... "

"Play?!" John interrupts, indignant, but Sherlock silences him with a simple gesture.

"... _but_ after the disaster with Suzanne ..."

"Sarah."

"Whatever. Anyway, I think it is a reasonable request for you to give up this job and concentrate fully on your work with me."

Perplex, John blinks at Sherlock. Not only is the topic of this conversation a completely different one than anticipated, the timing couldn’t be better. John wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of returning to Sarah’s clinic at all. He enjoys the adventures with Sherlock, the thrill, and the adrenaline. And who else would watch out for his moron of a flatmate, who repeatedly places himself in danger, if not John?

This brings up the possibility that Sherlock has indeed not noticed the other _matter_. Undecided whether to raise the issue and sort it out before it becomes a bigger issue, John guardedly clears his throat.

Before he’s able say anything, Sherlock sighs theatrically.

"All right, if you insist on hearing it… Yes, I need you, Doctor Watson. Your medical skills are by far superior to mine. Please, please work with me and so on and so forth," Sherlock says unconvincingly. When John responds with a chuckle, Sherlock pouts, offended and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"I’d like to do that, Sherlock. Juggling the clinic, the work, and trying to have some sort of private life was proving a little difficult lately."

"It’s settled then!" Sherlock exclaims, jumping to his feet and extending his hand towards John.

Somewhat irritated by the sudden outbreak of enthusiasm, John eyes his roommate skeptically, before he accepts the outstretched hand.

"Settled."

 

*

 

Soon, John realises why it is so important to Sherlock that they work together. The three unsolved cases on the desk are not very interesting per se. Barely a four. However, medical knowledge is necessary to understand that two of the cases are linked due to the medical history of the victims, but the third, although it may seem similar at first, has a completely different background. After John sorted through the files and explained the correlations to Sherlock, he receives an appreciative nod from the other side of the desk.

"Well done. We will take the files back to Scotland Yard later and see if Lestrade has something more interesting to offer," Sherlock says conversationally without looking up. His heels are resting on the tabletop, while he’s tapping away at his mobile. Or to be more precise...

"Er... is that my phone?"

"Hm?" Sherlock replies innocently, thumbs flying over the screen.

Resignedly, John groans and drops his head onto his crossed forearms on the desk. "Sherlock ... you can’t keep cracking my password!"

"Oh yes, I _can_! You should never choose a family member’s year of birth, John." Obviously pleased with himself Sherlock slides the mobile across the table to John and smiles enigmatically.

"There are only ten thousand combinations you can create with four digits, Sherlock."

"No reason to make it so easy for me..."

"Please tell me that you didn’t send emails in my name," John pleads as he taps Harry's year of birth to unlock the screen. At first it looks like nothing has changed, but that doesn’t mean anything. Muttering quietly, John decides that if Sherlock has denounced anyone on his behalf _again_ , he would read him the riot act. Hopefully, Sherlock hasn’t emailed Sarah ... Pouring additional oil onto _that_ fire would not be advisable.

"I promise. I only downloaded a small application that you might be interested in. But maybe not." Sherlock shrugs, gets to his feet and heads towards his bedroom. "I'll have a lie-down for a while..."

"Ok," John mutters, then looks up from his mobile, puzzled, and follows Sherlock with his eyes. Going for a lie-down is very unlike his flatmate. On the other hand, both of them only slept a few hours last night. As he remembers why, heat shoots up into John’s cheeks and he can't stop the blush, not even by biting down on his lower lip. He pushes the memory of last night away forcefully and focuses on the mobile in his hand. It's going to take days (weeks…), before he will be able to stop mentally revisiting the sinful sights and sounds of the last few days.

The new app has a white logo with pursed, pink lips on which lie an index finger, prompting the viewer to keep silent. Under the icon the word _Voluptas_ is written. John’s Latin lessons were a few years ago, but the small graphic makes him hold his breath expectantly. When he taps the screen to open the app, three buttons appear in the centre of the screen. They are labelled _how to_ , _play_ and _info_. John chews on his lower lip nervously, but taps on _play_ eventually.

A submenu opens. John's eyes widen in disbelief. Surprise and fascination reflect in his face as he’s trying to understand the meaning of the few words on the screen. The two areas displayed are called body and base (Okay ...). Six different levels of vibration (vibra... what the?!). As if bitten by an adder, John drops the mobile, jumps up and takes two large steps away from the desk. He clutches his hair in agitation, digs his fingernails into his scalp. Like a caged wildcat, he strides back and forth across the floor. Only after he’s taken a few deep breaths does he feel calm enough to look at the screen again.

So he knows. Sherlock _knows_ that John saw and heard him. Perhaps has deliberately provoked the latter event (Of course he has, you idiot! Why else would your phone ring at three a.m.?!). And now Sherlock intends to... _play_ with him?! (Bloody, manipulative bastard!)

John exhales audibly and meshes his fingers behind his neck (Oh hell…). This stunning, pesky, clever, catastrophic version of a man is willing to start _something_ with John, although relationships are _not really his area_? (Women, John. Women are not his area.) But John is not a woman. (Obviously.)

And what if all of this is just a bad joke? An _experiment_? A _let's see how far I can push the former military doctor and invalid before he snaps and tears my head off_? John wouldn’t put it past him. (Unfortunately.)

(And if Sherlock isn’t playing a game, if this has a chance of being real, then it could be the best thing to ever happen to me. Besides, there are always two players in such a game...)

All right then. Sighing, John sits back at the desk and switches back to the main menu to tap the _how to_ -icon and read the few lines of text. The programme is apparently able to determine the kind and intensity of a sex toy’s vibration. John swallows hard. He gazes in the direction in which Sherlock disappeared. Was he lying in his bed now, waiting for John to start the programme? What kind of reaction does Sherlock expect from John? That he simply agrees and plays along? (As if I could ever refuse him anything ...)

But what if he does? If John refuses and deletes the app? Would they simply return to their normal daily life and pretend nothing happened? (Do I even want that?!)

John wants to at least have an idea of the sex toy he's supposed to control and therefore googles the name _Voluptas_. With a few clicks, he finds a discrete website for erotic supplies. Said product is a black vibrating butt-plug in the form of a droplet with a T-shaped base. Two motors, one in the bulky end and one in the slender base can be operated individually and are thus capable of stimulating both prostate and perineum with various types and levels of vibration.

John stares transfixed at the screen. The inconspicuous vibrator appears so elegant and high-quality that it hardly looks like a sex toy at all. (But what else can you expect from Sherlock?!)

Thoughtful, John studies the various vibration levels of the programme. He thinks about last night, about Sherlock’s _accidental_ call, the excited breathing in his ear, the sensual sighs and moans. There is an instant tingle in John’s groin and hot waves of arousal waft through his limbs directly to the centre of his body. Clearing his throat, he tries to concentrate on the screen.

According to the _info_ tab, the programme only works over short distances, since the vibrator has a range of about five metres. With his heart pounding fast in his chest, John gets up and goes to the kitchen. The mobile in his left hand, he leans against the table in the middle of the room. From there he has a direct view of the narrow corridor and Sherlock's door. His thumb is hovering over the screen, trembling slightly. Since Sherlock went to bed, a little more than twenty minutes have passed. Ample time to prepare himself for this game. (Perhaps he’s even done this before... oh God... no, no, the way he was sitting... unlikely...) John exhales a shaky breath and hesitantly touches the screen.

No change. John doesn’t know what he’d expected. After all, he can neither see nor hear Sherlock, so he can’t really judge the reactions the vibrator will trigger inside him - or know if he had inserted it at all. John pushes the doubt out of his head. Sherlock had to have had something in mind as he downloaded this specific programme then brought it to John's attention.

John's gaze falls on the option that would let the wide end or the base of the toy vibrate to stimulate one of two erogenous zones, or both simultaneously. For starters, John chooses the default setting which stimulates both areas evenly and at the same time. Once activated, John is immediately flooded with the desire to try every variation possible until he finds the one that Sherlock likes best. Perhaps he would even be brave enough to ask Sherlock his opinion later on. For the moment, however, John has enough on his plate trying to deal with his own reactions.

The simple idea of Sherlock writhing naked on his bed, at the mercy of the constant stimulus inside his body, triggers such an intense desire in John that he has to close his eyes and compose himself. When he opens them again, he pushes himself away from the table and goes into the corridor, leans his head against the wall right next to Sherlock's door. He’s very careful not to make a sound. With his thumb, he swipes over the regulator and raises the vibration level.

And there it is. A dark, broken sigh. John’s cock twitches in interest in his trousers and starts to swell. His pulse is pounding in his throat, his mouth is terribly dry. Tense, he listens to every little noise behind the door. The faint light from the kitchen and the bright stripe under the door baths the corridor in a soft twilight. The pink glow of his mobile seems surreal in contrast. John feels a little out of place. Like an intruder in Sherlock's privacy - yet again - even if he knows Sherlock is the one who initiated the whole thing.

"... _hnn_..." sighs a deep voice from within the room and John licks his slightly chapped lips. He raises his right hand, but stops before it lands on the latch, pulls it back. It takes all of his willpower to suppress the urge to go inside and witness Sherlock's desire. But he resists, worried that with the uncertain state of their _relationship_ such a brash behaviour could possibly be a _deal breaker_. Instead, John increases the frequency of the vibration and listens to how Sherlock gasps and moans into his pillow.

With the limited information that John receives through the sounds, a picture of Sherlock manifests in his mind. He imagines Sherlock the same way he was a few days ago in his room, on all fours, arse in the air, face pressed into the pillow. Only this time the dildo doesn’t need to be held by him, it is solely under John’s control. Sherlock will therefore cling to the bed with one hand, overwhelmed by the sensations running through his body, and stroke frantically his erection with the other hand. Maybe he's thinking of John, imagining John kneeling behind him, fingers digging into his hips, thrusting deep into him.

John almost drops the mobile, when he realises that he's losing himself to this fantasy. Licking his dry lips, he forcefully calms himself and studies the screen again. After some consideration, he increases the intensity of the vibration at the base and changes the constant vibration in the broad head to a pulsation. He scrapes his teeth over his lower lip with relish at the thought of how the stimuli will focus directly on the prostate and perineum and literally drive Sherlock crazy.

As if to confirm his theory, he hears Sherlock’s brief, ecstatic moans that seem to reflect the changes in the pulse frequency. Without thinking about it, John reaches for his crotch and adjusts his neglected erection, which pushes needily against the zipper of his trousers. He lets his hand rest there, runs his thumb over the bulge and swallows the sigh that threatens to pass his lips.

" _Ah... yes... more!_ "

Sherlock's deep voice is muffled only by the door and the sound darts directly between John’s legs. Goosebumps run over his arms and his back when he increases the intensity of the programme yet again and listens to Sherlock’s almost desperate whimper. For a split second, he fears it might be too much and debates whether he should interrupt the game, but finally discards the thought as Sherlock's voice cuts through to him again. (Is he always this vocal during sex? God...)

Without hesitation John's hand slides under the waistband of his trousers and fumbles somewhat clumsily at his cramped erection, smears pre-cum over his fingers and sighs softly. His knees tremble as if they were made of jelly, and he knows that his legs will no longer hold him if he were so stupid as to finish this standing here in the corridor. So, he withdraws his hand and leans with his ear against the door. His heart skips a beat when he realises how Sherlock's voice falters for a long moment and falls silent, before the orgasm rips through him.

Tormented, John bites into the knuckles of his free hand and screws his eyes shut, tries as best as he can to concentrate on the rapture pulsing through Sherlock. As for himself, only the fantasy remains and Sherlock’s helpless sounds, which fade away slowly but surely. Quick-witted, John turns down the vibration and eventually closes the programme completely so as not to over-stimulate Sherlock’s probably now highly sensitive nerves.

The urge to push open the door and hold Sherlock in his arms is so strong that John feels like it’s tearing him apart. However, he’s overwhelmingly sure that he wouldn’t be capable of holding himself back and he might scare Sherlock with his exuberant lust, if not even hurt him. Taking a deep breath, John turns and goes to the kitchen, puts the mobile on the table. He climbs the stairs to his room on wobbly legs, closes the door behind him and strips his trousers off on the way to his bed.

Free at last, and lying on his back, he sighs with relief and wraps his fingers around the glistening head of his erection, spreads the emerging wetness over the entire length. With almost rough gestures, he pushes the foreskin up and down, rubs circles over the sensitive frenulum and the slippery slit with his thumb, while panting laboriously. His hips tense up, thrust demandingly into his hand, while in his head he replays the images of Sherlock that are etched into his mind. His grip intensifies, gliding frantically over the burning shaft and his sensitive glans until it is finally too much and he comes. More out of reflex than caution, he pushes his shirt up and spills on his contracting stomach. He presses his lips together firmly, so that his ecstatic moans become nothing more than a desperate whimper.

Breathing hard, he stares at the ceiling and comes slowly to rest.

So that's how it is, when you have sex with Sherlock Holmes... As strange and exciting as the man himself. And yet, the fact that they weren’t even in the same room leaves a sour aftertaste.

Will Sherlock ever allow John to actually come near him?

+++

_... you tremble._


	4. Let me touch ...

It's already afternoon by the time John forces himself to get up and leave his room again. For several hours, he had lain in his bed and thought about how to face Sherlock. The whole situation is terribly confusing. Sherlock has made it abundantly clear that he has a sexual interest in John, but at the same time he seems to be willing to allow advances only over a certain distance.

John can think of a number of reasons for such behaviour. Perhaps it is true what so many people have told him, that Sherlock has no actual need for human contact.

No, John knows that's not true. Sherlock is not the sociopath he claims to be. In reality, he's a socially awkward man who, emotionally, is still in his infancy and acts accordingly. John theorises that Sherlock, in all his awkwardness, is slowly coming to grips with something that causes him great anxiety. Something that he cannot talk about easily.

But then, maybe it is just an experiment. Or a kink.

With a mixture of curiosity and concern, John goes downstairs to the first floor. The living room and kitchen are empty, Sherlock's door is closed. He might be asleep although it would be strange at this hour of the day. Frowning, John puts the kettle on and goes to the bathroom to have a quick wash. Over the noise of the kettle, he hears Mrs Hudson's cheerful voice and the clicking of her heels on the stairs. As he comes out of the bathroom, he sees that she is holding a baking dish covered with aluminium foil, which she puts on the kitchen table. John goes to her, greets her warmly and asks about her visit to her sister.

She chatters happily about her sister’s grandchildren who had been visiting and how big they’d become in recent months. Lifting a corner of the foil, half a sheet cake, neatly cut into even squares, emerges. "I was hoping that you could relieve me of the rest. I can’t eat it all by myself and it would be such a waste if it went stale," she says lovingly and offers John a piece. He nods and grabs plates and cups from the cupboard, pours tea and sits down next to the elderly lady.

"How was your holiday?" Mrs Hudson asks gently and from her contrite expression, John can see that she already knows the outcome. He nevertheless gives a brief summary of the events with Sarah. "Well, I've never really liked that woman," she replies, and purses her lips as if she had bitten into a lemon.

John smiles weakly and pushes a piece of cake into his mouth. It's a juicy apple crumble cake with almonds instead of raisins. Sherlock will like it. "How'd it go here while I was gone?"

"Oh, it was awful," says Mrs Hudson, a desperate laughter on her lips. "I don’t know if Sherlock ate or slept at all while you were away. At night, he’d constantly play his violin and wake the neighbours. You know, that dreadful piece by that Hungarian composer... what was his name... ah, Bartók! It was like being in a horror film! And he was rude to anyone who came too close to him. God knows I love that boy, but he was no longer tolerable! He’s missed you _so_ much, John! "

Surprised by her statement, John inhales sharply and chokes on a mouthful of cake. When he’s regained his composure, Mrs Hudson gives him an affectionate pat on the arm, smiling broadly as if to say John needn’t pretend.

"He's terrified of losing you, John. The business with that criminal has probably made him acutely aware of how important your friendship is to him... but what am I doing sitting here talking to you! Mrs Turner is waiting for me," says Mrs Hudson and rises somewhat stiffly from her chair. Her hip seems to be bothering her again. Once more, she lovingly pats John's shoulder. "See to it that he eats something when he comes home."

"I thought he was in his room... Do you know where he has run off to?" John asks, puzzled.

Mrs Hudson covers her mouth with a wrinkled hand in surprise.

"Oh, I thought you knew. He’s left for Scotland Yard to return the files. He thought you were asleep and didn’t want to wake you... "

"Oh." John gazes after his landlady and chews listlessly on his last piece of apple cake. He washes it down with the remaining tea, then begins to clear away the table and does the washing up. Earlier Sherlock had said they would return the files to the Yard together. John doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly changed his mind. He has a hard time believing Mrs Hudson's version of Sherlock’s caring thoughtfulness. Instead, his assumption that Sherlock is embarrassed about what happened between them is more likely. (We were not even in the same room!)

John reflects upon how he should react if Sherlock is going to backpedal and try to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Did he do something wrong? What it too much? Too intimate? It seems impossible to assess the situation without confronting Sherlock.

Sighing, John takes a tea towel and starts drying the dishes.

 

*

 

When Sherlock finally returns in the evening, he’s worked up and manic. A glint of insanity flashes in his eyes and his racing thoughts are clearly written upon his face. This can only mean one thing:

"A case, John!"

(Obvious.) Nothing is more important than _The Work_.

Sherlock shrugs off his jacket, throws it onto the Le Corbusier chair and rolls the sleeves of his purple shirt up to his elbows. Wound up like the gears of a clock he continuously strides through the living room, his hands folded in front of his pale lips. His gaze is lost in the void between the windows and the passage to the kitchen. From time to time, his thoughts become so loud that they gush from his mouth, but out of context the words make little sense.

John is sitting in his chair by the mantle. His hands, resting on the armrests, are tracing the rough structure of the cloth beneath his fingertips. The more nervous Sherlock is, the calmer John tends to become. As if he was the polar opposite of his flatmate’s over exuberant energy. Perhaps John absorbed a little of the energy and neutralized it so that Sherlock was able to go on and on, without burning himself out. John likes the idea. He decides to give Sherlock the necessary space and the friendly ear he’s going to need at this stage of an exciting new case. He will push all other issues to the side for the moment.

After the first whirlwind of information has subsided, and Sherlock has attached his deductions by means of pictures, photos and yellow threads onto the wall above the couch, it’s become a bit quieter in the apartment. Sherlock has sat down at the desk and is researching something. His fingers are flying purposefully over the keyboard; the white light of the screen is reflected in his pale blue eyes. John, who doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone for too long, goes downstairs to Mrs Hudson and asks her to do a few small errands for them. Only the bare minimum, just enough to keep Sherlock functioning during his work. Ingredients for sandwiches, a few bags of crisps and cookies, apples and milk. John raises his eyebrows in apology, but the lovely woman only pats his cheek and sets off.

At regular intervals, John provides a plate of delicious snacks beside the consulting detective’s elbow, which Sherlock merely considers with a disgusted growl. However, the cookies and apple slices disappear within the next two to three hours, teacups are emptied and replenishment demanded.

Long after midnight, John fell asleep while reading in his chair. The book slips from his hand and startles him when it hits the ground. Somewhere at the edge of his perception, John drowsily notices how Sherlock picks it up, finds the page John was at and marks it. After he’s spread a blanket over John, he sits back in front of the laptop or types messages to Inspector Lestrade on his phone.

It takes sixty-one hours before Sherlock springs to his feet, stretching himself with a deep sigh. "John, we need to go to see Lestrade immediately."

John, standing in the kitchen chopping vegetables, turns to Sherlock, looking at him quizzically. "Case solved?"

"Of course. Plus Lestrade is at another crime scene and needs our help anyway. So, are you coming?"

John puts the knife aside and dries his hands on a dishtowel, throws it over his shoulder and goes over to his flatmate. Following an impulse, he puts his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm and presses gently. "Sherlock, you haven’t slept in three days... I know that you don’t want to do that now, but maybe you should at least take a shower and drink a cup of coffee?"

For a moment, Sherlock seems to falter. It is as if he truly perceives John for the first time in a long while. His eyes flit calculatingly over John’s face and he thinks he sees a hint of a blush on those high cheekbones before Sherlock turns away, huffing. "All right then. Prepare the coffee while I'm in the shower."

John does as he is told and a few seconds later he hears the water running in the bathroom. A short while later, Sherlock comes out of his room, freshly dressed and smelling of expensive shampoo and shower gel, and John wordlessly hands him a mug of coffee, smiling as it’s emptied obediently. The mug is barely set on the kitchen table that they finally leave the apartment.

Sherlock hails a cab and sits in the back seat. He seems to be nervous, continuously fidgeting back and forth. His fingers drum endlessly against his chin, while his bloodshot eyes scan the outside world. He looks very tired, John thinks, and decides to try and get Sherlock to go to bed as soon as they return.

They have just arrived at the crime scene near the Thames when a stream of deductions erupt out of Sherlock without him even glancing once at the body that is lying between the police officers and Anderson. Keenly, the three men listen to the deductions.

"It was clearly the mother. The photos of the daughter and her lover brought the decisive clue for the motive of the murder. In 1998 - as the timestamp proves - the mother had uploaded several photos to the internet, which show the same man. Obviously, he met the daughter a few years later without knowing anything about the connection to his former lover. In a fit of jealous rage she sought her revenge, but her plan went awry and killed the wrong target. She tried to blame the ex lover for her daughter’s death and tried to delete the pictures from the internet. But she couldn’t manage that - once on the net, always on the net, as the saying goes.”

At breathtaking speed Sherlock continues to unravel the case until Lestrade has all the necessary facts in order to arrest the woman.

"Brilliant," John whispers and looks appreciatively at Sherlock. A cursory glance meets him. Astonished, he perceives the blush in Sherlock's cheeks as well as the rapid fluttering of his eyelashes and he licks his lips in response. Sherlock doesn’t fail to notice this. While Lestrade’s barking orders at his colleagues and assigning tasks, Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out his phone, types something, then hesitates a moment. Again his gaze meets John's, who is observing the whole scene attentively, before Sherlock taps the screen without taking his eyes off John.

John feels the vibration of his mobile and retrieves it from his pocket with knitted brows he opens the incoming message.

_Play?_

John’s eyes widen a fraction. Then he swallows against the lump looked in his throat, raises his chin and meets Sherlock's piercing stare. Fervour and excitement linger there, and his lips part slightly as if he’s struggling to breathe. John’s heart skips a beat before hammering at double speed against his ribs. He nervously licks his lips, scrutinising the other people present. But no one seems to take note of the situation. (You incredible madman...)

Sucking his lower lip between his teeth, John opens the app _Voluptas_ and activates it. He limits it to a gentle vibration at the top of the toy as he fears that it would be possible to hear the motor in the shaft from the outside. He wants to avoid drawing other people’s attention to _this_. John thinks he sees a slight tremor go through Sherlock's body, which is reciprocated by a hot tug in John’s groin. Eyes fixed on Sherlock, he clenches the hand at his side into a fist and relaxes it again.

Cautiously clearing his throat, Sherlock answers a question from Lestrade, his face unwavering. A biting commentary by Anderson is the result, which Sherlock retorts to equally as snippy. John almost doubts that Sherlock has the vibrating butt-plug actually in his body and skeptically increases the intensity. This time, a clearly visible jolt goes through Sherlock. His sardonic reply to Anderson breaks off mid-sentence and ends in a laborious harrumph.

A sly smile appears on John’s lips.

"What do you mean, my IQ is lower than this man’s? He's dead!" Anderson gets worked up and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"You are also the only one I know who’s still trying to multiply by zero, Anders... _uhn_." Sherlock almost tilts forward, when John maximises the vibration for a moment to silence him. Sherlock gets the hint, exhales audibly and squints to apologize. "I am sorry. Please forget what I’ve just said. You are of course absolutely able to solve this case alone. Please excuse me."

Perplexed, Lestrade and Anderson gaze after the slowly retreating figure. John nods in the direction of both men and then catches up with Sherlock. "Okay?" He murmurs, studying his friend's profile carefully.

"Home. Now." Sherlock murmurs. Spots of heat are appearing on his cheeks and neck and send a promising tingle through John’s limbs.

"Oh God, yes ..."

They get into the first cab and John tells the driver their address. Somehow unsettled, his gaze wanders over Sherlock, who’s fidgeting in his seat again until he’s found an acceptable position. However, this time, John understands the reason. It must be uncomfortable to sit on the vibrating butt-plug, multiplying the pressure inside his body. Sherlock's eyes are glassy, his eyelids heavy, his lips slightly ajar and his breath escaping flat and erratic.

Just the sight of him makes John feel dizzy. With great difficulty, he suppresses the urge to grab Sherlock by the collar and thrust his tongue into his mouth. Instead, he’s nibbling at his lower lip while he runs his fingers across the screen of his mobile phone without changing the settings. Sherlock, who is observing the indecision in John’s movements, lets his head drop against the backrest and rolls it to the side, fixing John with widely dilated pupils.

For a few moments, John returns the glance, losing himself in the silvery-blue gaze, trying to memorise all the little signs that bear witness to how close Sherlock is to losing control of himself. He studies the application menu, taps on a few controllers and turns the vibration of the shaft on, listening with bated breath. Sherlock tenses noticeably, biting his lips, but doesn't make a sound. The vibration cannot be heard, so John adjusts it a little higher and switches the other end to pulsing. The same adjustment he used three days ago.

He carefully watches as Sherlock curls up a little more. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, he’s panting silently, sweat shimmering on his forehead. Spontaneously, John moves closer to him, now sitting in the middle of the back seat so that Sherlock can lean against his shoulder. The bulge of Sherlock’s crotch is clearly visible and it takes more self control than John imagined not to stretch out his fingers and stroke it teasingly. His own erection is pressing painfully against the zipper of his jeans, but thanks to the thick fabric, it’s not nearly as obvious.

"Is your friend alright?" The taxi driver asks, looking worriedly into the rear view mirror.

"He... uh... has a fever. He’ll be fine," John replies as calmly as possible with a weak smile. The heart in his chest is throbbing so hard that he fears it will give up entirely before he’s seen the end of this tormentingly long ride. John bends the arm between their bodies, grabs Sherlock's curls and gently pulls the pliant head, pressing Sherlock’s face into the hollow between John’s neck and shoulder. He feels Sherlock's hot breath on his larynx, and notices the heat that Sherlock’s body is emitting where their thighs are touching. He even thinks he can feel a little of the vibration through the seat and finds the idea terribly erotic. His fingertips gently caress Sherlock's hairline, feeling the structure of the sweaty curls.

Apparently overwhelmed by a massive wave of lust, Sherlock squirms beside him, and then slowly raises his head, looking almost beseechingly at John from under long lashes.

"We're almost there," whispers John and places an innocent kiss between Sherlock's eyebrows. Sherlock's fingers are searching for John’s free hand, and curl around them when a desperate whimper slips out of his mouth.

"Sure you’d rather not go to the hospital?" The taxi driver asks alarmed.

"Uh... no, not necessary. He... uh... just needs to rest and a bag of ice," John says,  finishing with a little cough, but he doesn’t even consider shutting down the intensity of the app. Looking out of the window, he realises that they are no more than three minutes away from Baker Street. He pulls a few notes from his wallet, which he hands over to the driver as soon as the cab stops. Somehow, he manages to manoeuvre Sherlock out of the cab and to steer the trembling figure across the pavement. He unlocks the black lacquered door, directing Sherlock inside and upstairs.

Now, away from the public, Sherlock's breathing increases rapidly with every step and soon becomes a gasp. He leans heavily against John, who pushes him into the flat and strips the suit jacket from Sherlock’s shoulders. Impatiently, John throws the pile of fabric aside and presses against Sherlock's back, shoving him against the closed door a little rougher than expected. A tantalising sound escapes Sherlock’s mouth; at the same moment he pushes his hips back and tightly nestles his arse against John’s crotch.

" _John_..."

The sultry voice pierces through John’s bone and marrow, glowing through his limbs and manifests itself in a fierce twitch of his erection. With both arms he reaches around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him close, stroking greedily his chest, stomach and hips. The difference in height is somewhat awkward. John presses his face between Sherlock's shoulder blades, inhaling the heated smell of the perfect expensive shirt, the handmade soap that Sherlock has used just a few hours ago, and the heady scent of his skin. His fingers slide down and fumble nervously at the leather belt, open the trousers and let them slide down to Sherlock's knees.

Without further delay, John slips his hand under the fine fabric of the pants and reaches for Sherlock cock. It throbs in time with Sherlock's pulse; it feels hot and humid with sweat and pre-cum in his hand. A dark moan escapes Sherlock's lips as he starts thrusting helplessly into John’s fist. The vibration of the sex toy is now clearly audible and palpable where it stimulates his perineum. Flustered, with his free hand John pulls at the fabric of the underwear, pushes them over Sherlock’s erect penis and testicles. Sherlock's forehead is resting against the door between his forearms. A humid oval forms on the door at the spot where his breath is fogging up the paint.

"Please! God... _John!_ "

John rubs over Sherlock’s wet glans and the hard shaft vigorously, grinding against Sherlock's back at the same time, but he doesn’t get enough friction for himself. With a mixture of excitement and frustration, he bites down on his lip and focuses on Sherlock's body, on the tremors in Sherlock’s limbs, the desperate sounds and the strenuous breaths. When he senses how each fibre in Sherlock tenses, his free hand reaches for Sherlock’s chin and pulls his head so far back that it comes to rest on John's shoulder.

"Come for me," he whispers hoarsely, and just moments later every one of Sherlock’s muscles is contracting uncontrollably. Sherlock turns his head and groans loudly into John's neck as he comes his legs giving out and pulling John down with him to their knees. Milky ejaculate spurts again and again against the door and John’s fist. Reverently, John breathes a kiss on Sherlock's temple, then on his cheek, his jaw, holding him close to his chest so that Sherlock doesn’t collapse further.

Breathing heavily Sherlock is clawing at John’s upper arms. "Turn it off!"

John follows the request immediately, panicking a little because the continued stimulation could cause a painful overstimulation. One-handed, he fumbles the phone out of his pocket and turns off the app. The humming stops and Sherlock sighs in relief.

"Can I?" John asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. He carefully removes the vibrator and drops it to the floor between Sherlock’s knees. Sherlock only hisses and whimpers faintly, then relaxes noticeably in Johns embrace. Close and clinging to John’s chest, his breathing and heartbeat slowly calm down.

Arms wrapped tightly around the glowing body, John inhales the heady smell of the man, who has – although he has known him already for quite some time now – developed entirely new nuances. Only then does he realise that they've never been this close before.

John tries to ignore the fact that his own desire is still unsatisfied and that Sherlock is kneeling in front of him open and wet.

"John..." Sherlock's voice is little more than a tortured whisper. "My knees hurt."

"Okay, wait." Awkwardly, John struggles to stand without letting go of Sherlock and helps him get to his feet, stabilising him and slowly leading him to his bedroom. Sherlock’s head is still lying in John's neck, unwilling to open his eyes or move by himself. He lets John manoeuvre him to the bed, barely able to lift a finger. Slowly, John removes his shoes, strips the trousers and pants off Sherlock’s legs and pushes him on his side so that he can open the shirt and take it off. Sherlock’s asleep before he is completely naked.

John then clumsily gets out of his shoes, pushes his trousers over his hips, and lies down beside Sherlock. Although his erection has slightly waned, it immediately becomes hard again when John wraps his hand around it and rubs it unceremoniously. His gaze is fixed on Sherlock's peaceful sleeping face, the sweep of his beautiful lips, the flush in his cheeks. It takes less than two minutes before John, suppressing a groan, comes on his shirt. Relieved and panting, he leans back and enjoys the buzz and tingling flowing in waves through his body.

Carelessly, he wipes his hand off on the already tainted cloth and leans towards Sherlock to cover him with the blanket. He affectionately strokes sweaty strands from Sherlock’s forehead and kisses his cheek. Collecting his clothes, John sighs, exhausted, and leaves the room so that Sherlock can make up for the lost sleep of the past few days.

+++

_... your body._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bartók](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szC8cS9M-Ew)


	5. Let me savour ...

Sherlock sleeps until late afternoon of the following day. Not surprising, after overworking his body for three days to solve a case for Scotland Yard. The physical effort that followed must have been the final nail in the coffin. As he recalls last night, a grin steals across John's lips, but it's soon replaced by a wave of panic. As exciting as the whole thing with Sherlock is, it's scary at the same time.

To have Sherlock's full attention and to be used for his sexual explorations is a (wonderful, breath-taking) thing. But what would happen if Sherlock lost interest? What if he suddenly got bored with him? When his desire for the foreseeable future is satisfied, or when something else becomes the focus of his interest. John can't compete with _The Work_ in the long run. And John secretly doubts that they would be able to simply return to the status quo.

Deep in thought, John bites on his lower lip when Sherlock staggers into the kitchen. He’s wearing the grey T-shirt and the worn-out pyjama pants; his curls sprout haphazardly in all directions and his face is clearly marked by signs of sleep deprivation. He will need another night's rest or two before he fully recovers. Something that is unlikely to happen given Sherlock's sleeping habits.

"Tea?" Sherlock asks hopefully and plops down heavily into the chair opposite John. He inspects what's on offer on the table with hooded eyelids. John has already had breakfast hours ago and just finished lunch, but he hadn't cleared Sherlock's place yet. Feeling helpful, he gets up, pours tea into Sherlock's cup, and adds milk and sugar. Then he puts two slices of white bread in the toaster and fetches the jam out of the fridge.

Standing next to Sherlock and looking down at him causes an unexpected tug and tingling in John's stomach. He would like to reach for his dishevelled locks, caress the man's pale neck, and pull him close to him. As if Sherlock heard his thoughts, he gives John a questioning look. The light coming in through the window shines through Sherlock's eyes, turning them almost colourless. A jolt goes through John when the bread jumps out of the toaster and prompts him to turn around. Clearing his throat, he grabs the toasted slices and places them on Sherlock's plate before settling back down in his seat and refilling his own tea.

When Sherlock intertwines his fingers and raises his arms over his head to stretch extensively, his T-shirt slips up past his belly button. John's gaze sinks of its own volition, focused on the bared, creamy white skin. Saliva collects in his mouth and he averts his gaze in confusion, feeling the heat that creeps into his cheeks.

"I wonder if Anderson put the pieces together..." Sherlock muses, sipping his tea.

John looks up and tries to recall the context. His brain is not quite right. A small smile haunts Sherlock's lips as if he understands very well what's going through John's head. (Bloody hell.)

"The case yesterday on the Thames. Anderson insisted it was a murder because of the head injury and scratch marks on the man's face, but of course he overlooked everything of importance. It was clearly a tragic accident. I would not have left that idiot off the hook so easily had it been a murder."

John grunts in agreement, but he doesn't comment any further since that would make it obvious he can hardly remember the scene. He had been too distracted by Sherlock's text message and his request to _play_. (Manipulative bastard!)

"Then... er... you should probably explain it better to Lestrade," John tries evasively. Glad to be able to put some distance between himself and his roommate, John gets up and goes into the living room while Sherlock fetches his cell phone. He sits down with his laptop and looks at several online newspapers, studying the headlines and obituaries in case something interesting for Sherlock pops up. He listens to Sherlock with one ear while he explains to Lestrade over the phone how the man on the banks of the Thames got killed and what an idiot his forensic is.

At some point, he moans in frustration and bangs the phone down on the kitchen table with a little too much force. Muttering what he thinks of Anderson, he goes into the bathroom and slams the door behind him. John winces at the loud bang and hopes Lestrade has not taken any punitive measures against Sherlock, like excluding him from the homicide squad’s crime scenes.

From time to time, the detective inspector tends to take his team’s side over Sherlock’s so as not to cause disputes in his department. Sherlock acts as if he doesn’t care, but John has seen more than once how much this favouritism upset him. After all, he counts Lestrade amongst his few friends, even if he will never say it to his face.

John hears the shower in the bathroom turn on and curses the blush that creeps up his face again. With an overwhelming stir in his groin, he thinks back to the past afternoon: how he brought Sherlock to climax, how Sherlock's body felt in his arms and the wonderful sounds he made. John likes to think back on Sherlock's peaceful expression too, when he finally lay naked in his bed and almost fell asleep on the spot.

Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t even mention that John had subsequently washed and disinfected the vibrator, placed it discreetly on Sherlock's bedside table and removed all traces of semen from the front door. Maybe, John thinks with a sarcastic grin, Sherlock also knows such mundane matters usually get done on their own. All the people in Sherlock's entourage obviously have the selfless habit of picking up after his chaos.

Once Sherlock finishes his shower and gets dressed, John gives him a quick summary of the news. However, Sherlock dismisses them with a growl of disinterest and instead brings out his violin. He rubs the bow’s horsehair with rosin in a familiar way, then tunes the instrument’s strings. John observes the procedure attentively. Even if this is not the first time he has seen the process, Sherlock's handling of the violin fascinates him more than ever today. He lovingly puts the violin on his shoulder, rests his chin against it. His gaze loses itself out of the window as he coaxes the first notes out of the instrument.

John leans back in his chair, letting the music fill him. It seems to be made of brief, incoherent passages, nothing he can associate. In fact, he doesn't recognise the melodies at all and therefore assumes that Sherlock is just playing to his heart's content. The long fingers dance over the neck of the violin while the bow delicately strokes the strings.

All of a sudden, John becomes painfully aware of how equally intimately he touched his best friend the previous day. And how much he wants to do it again. He swallows heavily against the burn in his throat, struggles out of his chair and flees into the kitchen.

As if on cue, he sees the fridge and half-heartedly remembers their scarce stock of food. "Do you want something from Tesco?"

Sherlock abruptly interrupts his playing and turns towards John, watching him suspiciously. John clearly feels himself being dissected by his gaze and is about to open the front door when Sherlock finally answers.

"No."

John tries not to leave the building too hastily.

 

*

 

Instead of going straight to Tesco, John walks around aimlessly for a while. He looks into a few shop windows, watches people on the street and in the shops, before finally sitting down on a bench in the middle of a tiny park. Tension tingles under his skin and runs down his back over and over again, biting harshly into the muscles of his shoulders. He casually rubs his neck and tries to calm down, but he can’t even explain why he feels so strained.

John has been out barely three quarters of an hour when he realises that he misses Sherlock already. Like a piece of his being has been broken off and nothing else can fit there anymore. At the same time, he feels dizzy at the mere thought of being in Sherlock's presence and discovering all the unfamiliar facets his friend usually keeps hidden.

Upon hearing a dark rumble, John looks up. The sky is heavy with thick, grey clouds promising a shower soon. (Fantastic.) John rushes to the nearest store and enters just in time for the first drops to hit the ground. Surprised, he realises that he has landed in an Indian restaurant. One of the waiters looks over at him and asks him to sit down. John nods and orders a chai. The smell of garlic and curry, honey and coconut milk is in the air.

As the downpour increases, John drinks the spicy tea and looks out. The number of people on the streets has only partially decreased. Instead, numerous umbrellas have opened, giving the grey weather a colourful touch. Slowly, it gets darker outside and street lamps light up.

After John has finished his second cup of tea, he orders food to go, pays and leaves the place. It's still raining, but since it's barely a ten minutes walk to Baker Street, it's not worth taking a taxi. He opens the door to 221B and goes up to their flat. Sherlock lies wrapped in a dressing gown on the sofa, facing the back of it.

"I brought Samosa for you," John says, arranging the various dishes on several plates. "Can you help me?" He hears Sherlock yawn, stretch out his long limbs and reluctantly enter the kitchen. Instead of doing what John asked of him, he walks through the room and goes to the bathroom. John already wants to sigh in resignation and resumes doing all the work on his own when a towel lands on his head.

"You were not at Tesco," Sherlock notes. "We're out of milk."

John freezes on the spot when Sherlock grabs the terrycloth towel to dry his wet hair. Sherlock instantly distances himself and John angrily bites the inside of his cheek. (Crap...)

"Go get changed, I can take care of this," Sherlock declares with a stony face and brings the first plate in the living room. John nods weakly and, cursing under his breath, he hurries up the stairs to the second floor. He takes off his wet clothes, slips into sweatpants and a T-shirt, puts his towel around his neck before rushing back downstairs.

Meanwhile, Sherlock has dished out all the plates and drinks on the coffee table and turned on the small TV. Only the lamp on the desk and the flickering screen light the room, softening Sherlock's hard contours in their twilight. Sherlock stares skeptically at the screen with his eyebrows drawn.

"Is that one of those James Bond movies?"

One look at the telly is enough to see that Sherlock got it wrong.

"No, some recent spy movie, no idea what. Just leave it on, but don't tell me the end," John says and smiles as Sherlock rolls his eyes theatrically. "How are the samosa?"

Sherlock nods with his mouth full and offers a belated "good" afterwards. As he bites into the next dumpling, John wonders if he can steal one without Sherlock breaking out in indignant protests. But before he has resolved himself to try, Sherlock pushes his plate towards him and picks instead at John's green curry to try some of it.

"That's spicy," John warns, but Sherlock has already put a spoonful in his mouth. John snorts when he sees Sherlock trying to maintain his composure, but finally collapses with laughter and turns away, panting. "I'm sorry," John chuckles, "I should have warned you first!"

"That _is_ spicy..."

John shrugs. "It's okay. You're just not used to anything that hot." His grin widens when Sherlock gives him a half-amused, half-disparaging look.

"Hidden allusion, Doctor Watson?"

"You're the detective, Mr Holmes!" John counters, pushing another plate towards Sherlock to distract him. "This one isn't so spicy."

Thankfully, Sherlock tastes some of the yellow curry and nods approvingly. John takes a drink and enjoys the warmth that spreads through his stomach. Every now and then, he casts a sidelong glance at Sherlock and is pleased that he is eating. Silently, they watch the film but its plot is too far-fetched, even by John's standards. Sherlock clearly tells him what he thinks about the not-too-unexpected twist in the story, and John fears that the producer will receive a bitter email in the next few days, when Sherlock unexpectedly jumps up.

Irritated, John watches as Sherlock piles up the empty plates and clears the table. He hadn't even realised that advertisements were running.

"Would you like to have a drink?"

"Uh... Sure..." John babbles and looks at Sherlock's retreating back. He returns an instant later with two glasses of wine, puts them on the table and sits back on the sofa. John clearly realises that the distance between them has significantly lessened. They don't touch, but he feels the warmth radiating from Sherlock next to him. Heart pounding, he reaches for his glass and takes a long sip. He can no longer focus on the film, which he has not been paying much attention to anyway.

However, John doesn't miss the following scene. After an exciting car chase that leaves nothing but rubble and ashes from various buildings, the protagonist and the obligingly beautiful woman he rescued arrive in a hotel room. (Of course.) After only a few seconds, garments fly through the air and the blonde gets on her knees in front of her hero. Her head disappears at the bottom of the screen and the camera focuses on the lust-distorted face of the man.

John swallows against the sudden dryness in his mouth. It's weird to watch a sex scene, no matter how badly it's acted, while Sherlock is sitting right next to you and deducing God knows what about you. John reaches for his glass and drinks more of the wine. A tentative glance confirms his fears. Instead of looking at the TV, the silver blue eyes are aimed directly at him, seeing right through him.

John laughs it off unconvincingly. "There's no movie without these kind of scenes nowadays, eh?"

"Hmm," Sherlock hums thoughtfully. "I wouldn't mind, you know."

John can just barely avoid swallowing. He carefully puts the glass back on the table and wipes a few drops of wine from the corners of his mouth. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock's eyes flit over John's, back and forth. "Have you ever experienced fellatio?" he finally asks straight out and waves an explanatory hand in the air between them. "With a woman, certainly. But I mean with a man."

Unsure, John stares at his roommate. His first impulse is to berate Sherlock and demand that he respect his privacy, but after all that has happened between them in the last few days, such a reaction seems hypocritical.

"Why are you asking?" John's voice is rough, his breath uneasy. Again, he curses the heat that has risen to his neck and face.

Sherlock tilts his head awkwardly. It's only a slight movement, but it's accentuated by the half-smile. "I wouldn't mind..." (Again this phrase...)

Unintentionally, John licks his dry lips. His heart leaps up into his throat, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. (After all, that's no surprise, Watson.) And yet, John is more nervous than he's been in a long time. He takes a deep breath and extends his hand, reaching for the knot that holds Sherlock's robe together and pulls it open.

Rare astonishment is written all over Sherlock's face as John slowly slips off the sofa to his knees and sits between Sherlock's legs. Carefully, he pushes the coffee table back a bit to have more space. The glasses wobble dangerously, but recover their balance.

John carefully places his hands on Sherlock's knees and looks up, straight into the stormy blue eyes. "Yes, I've done it before... in high school… was a long time ago. I was a pretty curious boy back then, you know?"

"John..."

As John strokes his thumb over the bulge under the thin pyjama pants, Sherlock falters and shakily draws air into his lungs. John feels a slight twitch in Sherlock's semi-rigid penis and nervously sucks his lower lip between his teeth. Drawing small circles, he continues to stroke the fabric, feeling the shape and the swelling increase. Glancing up, he sees Sherlock's dilated pupils, his hooded eyelids. John jerks himself into action, leans forward, and breathes open-mouthed against Sherlock's crotch. With his lips he feels his way over the concealed penis while he strokes Sherlock's thigh as if to soothe him. (Damn, my knees...)

When John unexpectedly gets up, Sherlock flinches in surprise. "Just a moment..." John walks over to his chair, grabs the Union Jack pillow and drops it onto the floor between Sherlock's feet. With a satisfied sigh, he kneels on it and hooks his fingers in Sherlock's waistband in the same movement. "Up!"

Sherlock does as he is told and props himself up on the seat so as to raise his hips.

Heart-pounding, John pulls pyjamas and underwear down over Sherlock's long legs and slips them past his knees so that they pool around his ankles. His eyes focus on the reddened penis, which is now fully erect and lies expectantly on Sherlock's stomach. The clean-shaven skin is a surprise which fascinates John; the sensation as he strokes a hand over the groin and the twitching testicles is amazing. John leans forward and puts an innocent kiss at the base, hears Sherlock's breath falter, places another kiss on the shaft, then one on the glans. The gentle sigh that follows makes John look up.

Sherlock's eyes are still fixed on him and shame burns hotter in John's cheeks. He lowers his eyes to evade that gaze. His tongue flits out and he tentatively tastes the velvety, warm skin, licking slowly from the base to the frenulum. For a moment, his tongue tip focuses on this sensitive point and a drop of pre-ejaculate forms over the slit. John suddenly licks it, tastes the salty note and realises with satisfaction how a shudder goes through Sherlock.

Emboldened, John puts his lips over the swollen glans and explores it with his tongue. Sherlock's suppressed moaning in his ears encourage him to sink lower, taking more of the erection in his mouth and sighing softly. It's a fabulous feeling. John's lips tighten around the shaft, his comparatively rough tongue teasing the delicate skin, the edge of the glans, its slit. With the index finger and thumb of his right hand, he holds the base in a loose grip, while the remaining fingers repeatedly stroke under the testicles. He inhales Sherlock's beguiling scent as his left clings to Sherlock's hips.

A curious look upwards tells him Sherlock has his head stretched back and is breathing hectically. The colour in his cheeks runs down his neck and disappears into the collar of his T-shirt. The fingers of his hands resting on the seat of the sofa flex again and again as if seeking support. John sighs lustfully over the erection in his mouth. It's almost a purr that transmits directly to Sherlock and makes him shiver. John tries to take the erection as deep as he possibly can in his throat and enjoys the feeling of it being completely taken in, only to withdraw slowly.

With one hand, Sherlock reaches for John's head, but he stops himself immediately, startled again. "I… I'm sorry," he whispers between heavy breaths.

"'s alright," John replies, putting Sherlock's hand back against his head. He shifts his weight a bit more to his thighs so he doesn't have to rest on his forearm, then fumbles with his sweatpants, tugging at them impatiently to free his own erection. But he needs both hands to pull enough of it out to remain over the waistband of his underwear. Taking advantage of the brief respite, John spits in his hand and rubs the extra moisture over his shaft. John makes a guttural sigh against Sherlock's skin, then puts his lips over the swollen glans again to specifically stimulates it. The added arousal that shoots through his own body spurs John to work his lips and tongue faster over Sherlock's penis.

Sherlock's restrained whimpering and twitching almost jumbles John's mind. He literally feels the orgasm building up in Sherlock, multiplying the electrical impulses in his nerve pathways and making him tremble. His breathing turns short, erratic and is interrupted more and more by his lustful sighs.

"John!"

In a futile attempt to warn John, Sherlock tugs at his blond hair and presses his other hand against John's shoulder. But John just ignores it, pushing Sherlock's arm aside and clasping his wrist. A jolt goes through Sherlock as he throws his head back and arches his back.

John feels the erection pulsing the moment Sherlock comes, making sure that the ejaculate does not get into his trachea. With three fingers, he massages the wet penis, luring out the last few drops until Sherlock makes a pained sound and gently pushes John's hand away.

While John rests next to Sherlock's hip, he thrusts relentlessly into his fist, chasing after his own climax, which gathers, tingling, in the middle of his body. Panting, he puts his forehead against Sherlock's groin, feels how the sharp hip bone pushes into his cheek. The muscles in his thighs and back are tense as the orgasm finally rolls over him and tears a hoarse moan out of him.

Sherlock's hands are in his hair and around his neck, pulling him close to his own body. Absent-mindedly, John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and buries his face in his stomach until his breathing has calmed down to normal and he feels the stroking on his back. Despite his aching knees, John struggles to his feet and pulls the stained sweatpants over his hips. He rolls onto the sofa and comes to rest next to Sherlock in a half-sitting, half-lying position.

John rubs his face with one hand, wipes the damp traces of his chin and lips, and finds himself grinning from one ear to the other. Everywhere in his body, he feels euphoric tingles and an uncontrolled giggle bubbles out of him. He cannot help himself, the situation is simply too absurd.

Irritated, Sherlock looks at John, which only makes the laugh worse until he finally gets in the mood. "What are you laughing about?"

John sighs amused and shakes his head. "I have no idea!" He looks over at Sherlock, watching him pensively - the sharp lines of his face, the swell of his beautiful lips, the nest of tangled curls - and the heart contracts in his chest.

Sherlock is back to his usual self again and meets John's gaze. Indecision reflected in the silver-blue eyes, something that John has rarely seen before. A mixture of regret and uncertainty.

Suddenly worried, John frowns. "What is it?"

"John," Sherlock interrupts himself, pressing his lips into a thin line as if he had to stop the words behind it, "Why... won’t you let me touch you?"

(What?!)

Speechless, John stares at his friend.

+++

... your desire.

 


	6. Let me feel ...

Speechless, John stares at his friend.

_Why won't you let me touch you?_ The words make no sense to John. He feels Sherlock's eyes on him, waiting, but he doesn’t know how to answer that question. After all, it's Sherlock who's always trying to keep his distance, Sherlock who doesn’t want to be near him.

Right?

John swallows hard. He reviews the past few days, thinking about the different situations in which he and Sherlock had intimate encounters in some form or other. Although John has always taken up Sherlock's suggestions - as always, when Sherlock wants to do something exciting - he now he realises that at the same time, he has never crossed this imaginary border that would have included his own wishes.

He ignored Sherlock's wordless invitations, assuming instead that it was, as usual, the egocentric demands of his friend. He didn’t even try to initiate a conversation with Sherlock to clear up his intentions and put his own needs out there in the open. John is too used to jumping when Sherlock tells him to. Always the good soldier. As a consequence, he has withheld a part of himself from Sherlock. His desires, his feelings. His vulnerability. Intimacy is a reciprocal process, but John unconsciously blocked it.

(We didn't even kiss...)

Sighing, Sherlock gets up and goes to the kitchen, obviously not expecting to get an answer to his question. He fills a glass with tap water, drinks it all at once, then goes to his room and closes the door. (Fuck.)

John puts his hands over his face and groans in agony. He can still taste Sherlock's in his mouth, he reaches for his wineglass and empties it. For a while he stares into space. The TV is running the next featured film. John turns off the device, picks the two glasses from the coffee table and brings them to the kitchen. In the bathroom, he washes his face and brushes his teeth. He deliberately ignores the dried stains on his clothes.

Behind the glass in the door leading to Sherlock's room, the lights are on. John stares at the illuminated rectangle, hoping to see movement behind it. But all is still. With a sigh, John leans his forehead against the doorframe. His left hand closes into a fist, opens, closes again. His mind is in turmoil. He does not want to end things this way, does not want it to become so awkward between them they can’t stand to be near each other anymore. He wants... Sherlock.

The crazy guy means too much to him. (Way too much...)

Timidly, John knocks on the glass. "Sherlock?" No answer. John gathers all his courage and presses the handle, pushes the door a little. Sherlock is sitting at the foot of his bed and looking out the window. It’s dark outside, nothing visible save the light from the street lamps. He doesn’t turn around when John enters the room and closes the bathroom door behind him.

The mattress gives way as John sits on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry. I... didn't know you wanted that. To touch me, I mean. That's it's all... not only... " John doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He presses his lips, tentatively puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder blade. Body heat radiates through the fabric of the t-shirt and Sherlock's tension is clearly noticeable.

"That it's not all just for my _own_ pleasure?" Sherlock's voice is tainted with bitterness. "And here I thought you at least had a _little_ fun with me!" Sarcasm. "Not as much as you could have had, but... I can’t force you to... like me." Sherlock spits out the last word as if it tasted particularly bad. It wounds John and his stomach contracts painfully.

"But I like you, Sherlock. More than that... I... thought that you... couldn't feel that way... that you are... not into other people."

"Other people, John. Other people, but not you!"

Following an impulse, John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and leans his head against his shoulder. "I'm really, really sorry, Sherlock. I don't want to lose you."

"Why would you think you could lose me?" Sherlock asks quietly. His hand lie on John's forearm, caressing it gently.

"You get bored quickly... What if you're bored with me?" John argues, feeling a devastating unrest churn inside him as if that fear were about to become true. He thinks he knows Sherlock well enough by now to say that this fear is more than justified.

"John, even you should realise that we cannot know the future. It would be a lie if I said that such a thing could never happen. I just don't know. Don't look at me like that, there are many things I don't know," Sherlock says, without actually looking at John's expression. They fall silent for a while. John is still leaning against Sherlock's back and he can feel the warmth and firmness of Sherlock's body, as well as the painful reality of his words.

"All I know is that I couldn’t stand it if Moriarty had succeeded in killing you," Sherlock murmurs. "I still dream about how you stood there, with his words in your mouth... how he let me doubt you for a moment... and then the fear that he would rip you out of my life." Sherlock's grip on John's arm tightens, digging painfully into his skin.

"Those nightmares... John, I dreamed of you leaving, again and again... getting out of my life. It got unbearable when you were in New Zealand." Sherlock pauses and shakes his head sadly. He still doesn’t look at John. As he continues, his voice is little more than a whisper. "I spent almost every night in your bed because... It was the only place I could still sense you."

(Oh...)

"That you caught me there... well, that wasn't planned."

(Oh God...) John groans inwardly and unconsciously clings closer to Sherlock. Heat rises from the root of his hair and causes his face to literally go up in flames. He shamefully hides behind Sherlock's back, feels the galloping heartbeat of the man on his cheek, proving how taxing Sherlock's confession is on him.

"Your... reaction was... unclear. That's why I called you a few days later at night. You couldn’t sleep. And I wanted to test you. Wanted to see if you would hang up immediately if you heard me... but you didn't... "

(Oh fuck, fuck, fuck...) John feels the need to  explain himself at that, but he doesn't know how. It's all so unspeakably embarrassing that he would rather sink into the ground.

"You hung up when I said your name, when I wanted to explain everything," Sherlock continues, "A part of me hoped you would come to me, but..." Sherlock snorts softly, resignedly. "I was wrong."

"I'm sorry I didn't realise it sooner," John whispers, nestling his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "I... I didn’t know... I... couldn’t... imagine... Oh God... I'm such an idiot!"

John kisses Sherlock's neck, under his ear, pulling him closer. He gently puts his left arm around Sherlock's shoulder while his right hand is still laying over his stomach. He strokes Sherlock's jaw with his thumb, turns his head towards him. His pulse inevitably increases, flooding his veins with adrenaline when their eyes meet. John finds it hard to resist Sherlock's attentive gaze. He seems to be looking right into his soul and realise all the chaos raging inside him. But it's a good thing that Sherlock sees all this and is still - or maybe because of that - looking for John's closeness.

John looks at his friend's distinctive lips when he opens them to say something. However, he remains silent. John deliberately lowers his mouth to Sherlock's, feels his soft lips and closes his eyes. A silent sigh escapes him as Sherlock returns the kiss just as tentatively. It's as if they finally got over the hurdle that kept them apart these last few days.

Sherlock twists around and leans closer against John for support, releases John's arm on his stomach and instead grabs his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

John puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, stroking his cheek, his neck, weaving his fingers into the dark brown curls. When he feels Sherlock's shaky gasps in between kisses, he opens his eyes.

Sherlock's pupils are dilated, lips already reddened. His high cheekbones have also turned a darker shade. With a slight turn of his head, he pushes into the hands in his hair.

"Don't stop," Sherlock rasps, fixing John's lips.

John immediately kisses him again and sighs pleasantly against the other man's mouth. Kissing Sherlock is so much better than John ever imagined. At the same time soft and firm, yielding and demanding, curious and teasing. Gently, John tugs at Sherlock until he finally turns towards him completely and pulls himself onto the bed.

They sink backwards, coming to rest side by side. Without further ado, John manoeuvres himself over Sherlock's torso and kisses him intimately, whipping out his tongue and toying with his lower lip. Obediently, Sherlock opens his mouth and allows John in, puts his hands on John's back and hugs him close. Leaning on his elbow, John holds Sherlock's head between his hands and enjoys the feel of their wet tongues sliding against one another.

With every touch of his lips, an arousing tingle shoots through John's body. His heart flutters in his chest and stomach, and his skin glistens where it meets Sherlock's warmth. He feels a vague uncertainty in Sherlock's movements and instinctively asks himself: "Has he ever done this before?"

"Don't be stupid, John."

John acknowledges the defensive insult with a knowing grin.

"Of course I've kissed someone before. Just not... like this," Sherlock confesses with his eyebrows drawn.

"With tongue?" John asks skeptically, but Sherlock rolls his eyes in annoyance.

"No, with... feelings. So keep going. And - before you ask - yes, I've had sex before... "

"I didn't want to..."

"Liar."

John snorts in amusement and strokes Sherlock's cheek. "And how was that for you?" He asks in a rough voice. The brief flicker in Sherlock's eyes doesn't escape him.

"It's not worth mentioning."

"Hm..." John rubs his nose over Sherlock's cheek and puts a single kisses on his face. Maybe it's better to discuss this topic another time, before the mood is ruined. John tightly clings to the other body and pushes his knee between the long legs, pressing his hips against Sherlock's thigh. His lips are just inches above Sherlock’s and their eyes are locked together. "Do you want...?"

"Yes..." Sherlock cuts him off instantly, puts his hands around John's face and pulls him in for a kiss.

John kisses him back and caresses Sherlock's waist, his thigh, then back up to his chin, pushing Sherlock's head back. He nibbles his pale neck with relish, sucks his earlobe between his teeth and smiles inwardly when Sherlock audibly gasps for air.

"God, your voice, Sherlock... I can't get enough of it," John whispers next to Sherlock's ear, before sliding his tongue over the edge of it.

His fingers are finding their way under Sherlock's T-shirt, stroking the warm skin, finding one of the nipples and pinching it carefully. He smiles knowingly when Sherlock makes a surprised sound and reflexively bites John's lips. Eyes flashing, John swings his leg over Sherlock and grabs his hips. "I feel like a fucking teenager... or how else do you explain that I'm hard again?" As if to prove his point, he rubs his erection against Sherlock's crotch and is satisfied to find him no different.

"John..." Sherlock sighs softly, pushing his pelvis up to meet John, reaching for his hips and increasing the friction. His hands glide over John's covered penis. "I want to see you naked this time," Sherlock whispers darkly and tugs impatiently at the waistband of his sweatpants.

John hesitates for a moment before complying and pulling his T-shirt over his head. It's the first time Sherlock has seen the scar that sent him back to London, and he's a little embarrassed when he realises Sherlock's focus is directed solely on the pink circle.

Sherlock sits up and wraps his arms around John's hips and buttocks, pressing his lips to John's ribcage and kissing his chest. John moves closer, guessing what Sherlock's intention is. The corners of his mouth twitch as Sherlock runs his tongue over the bulging scar tissue, while his fingers touch John's back and explore the glared skin of the much larger exit wound.

"I don't feel much in that spot," John confesses, stroking Sherlock's wild curls. Watery blue eyes look up at him and they are so full of unfiltered emotions that John has to swallow hard.

"Without it, you would not be here."

Instead of answering, John kisses Sherlock lovingly. He helps Sherlock out of his grey T-shirt and gets out of bed to take off the rest of his clothes.  He can almost feel Sherlock's eyes burning into his skin as they contemplate him in the nude. (Well, what you see is what you get... Not everyone can be as beautiful as you...)

Sherlock's breathing stops audibly at the sight that presents itself to him. He pushes the pyjama bottoms off his legs and kicks it off the bed, holding both arms out to John and sighing in relief when he readily lies next to Sherlock and snuggles up to him. "John..."

The feeling of warm skin on skin is phenomenal. Hands and mouths go exploring, mapping the curves and edges, the tendons and muscles of the other body; tasting salt, heat and sweat; and, every now and then, uncovering a soft sigh.

John is intrigued by how much Sherlock is touch starved, by how eagerly he writhes beneath his hands and lips, always searching for new points of contact. But he does not only take. He is at least as - if not more - caring for John, watching his reactions, asking what he likes and what he doesn't. Therefore, John is not surprised Sherlock soon finds out how sensitive he is at the back of his knees and the crook of his arms, where he then spends a long time caressing him.

Sherlock nibbles at the inside of John's thigh, kisses over the hip joint and pauses for a moment. Breathing heavily, John looks down at him, sees Sherlock peer closely at him. "By the way, I meant it the other way before... when I said that I didn't mind...", he explains quietly and licks tentatively at John's erection. John sighs then gives a breathless chuckle.

"You just wanted to misunderstand, didn’t you?" Sherlock emphasizes the question with a mischievous grin, then bypasses John's glans with the tip of his tongue. A pleasant shiver runs down John's back, making him gasp. He bites his lower lip as Sherlock lathers his erect penis with his lips, mapping it with sluggish movements of his tongue.

"Sherlock..."

John can't look away. He's much too fascinated by how Sherlock's mouth stretches around his shaft, how he licks and sucks on it, and always making with a self-satisfied sigh. It’s incredibly hard for him to interrupt Sherlock so as not to climax too soon. More roughly then he intended, he grabs the brown curls and pulls Sherlock into an all-consuming kiss. Playfully, he bites into the reddened lips, registering with satisfaction how Sherlock complacently allows it.

When Sherlock settles on John's lap and wraps his arms around his neck, they kiss again and again. John strokes Sherlock's long back, his hips, his buttocks, pulling him close, so that Sherlock's erection stubbornly presses against his stomach, making him gasp. His fingers glide over Sherlock's round buttocks, reach in firmly and lasciviously knead the soft flesh. Confident, he feels his way to Sherlock's anus and slowly massages the ring of muscles there.

When he pulls his hand back and drips saliva on his fingertips, he feels how intensely Sherlock stares at him. Sherlock's grip on his shoulders noticeably tightens, his lips are slightly parted, his breath ragged. Sherlock's pupils are so dilated that John hardly recognises the blue of the iris. He boldly strokes the same spot again with his wet fingers, pressing his fingertip gently against the body’s opening, never taking his eyes off Sherlock, vigilantly following every reaction.

Sherlock exhales sharply, cramping reflexively. After a few deep breaths, he relaxes noticeably and licks his dry lips.

John unconsciously imitates the gesture and cranes his neck to kiss Sherlock. Slowly, John moves his finger deeper into the heated body, kisses Sherlock's chest and listens attentively to his panting breaths. With his other hand, he continuously caresses Sherlock's back, his hips and his right thigh, while Sherlock pushes back into his hands. Quiet, choppy sighs escape him again and again. His cheek, neck and chest are covered in red spots.

"Okay?"

"More," Sherlock breathes against John's mouth while he moves his hips to take in more of John's finger. "I want to feel you inside of me..."

John makes a garbled sound that oscillates between lust and despair. Nothing can stop him from fulfilling Sherlock's wish, except the fear of doing something wrong.

Sherlock, feeling John's hesitation, puts his lips once more on his lover's lips. "I trust you..." he breathes, barely a hair’s breadth away. He slips back slightly so that John's fingers slide out of him, rolls over on his side, and shuffles towards the drawer of his bedside table, from where he takes a tube of lube and hands it to John, looking at him expectantly.

John swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and finally kneels between Sherlock's propped legs. His heart thunders in his chest as he spreads some of the colourless gel on his erection and smears the rest between Sherlock's buttocks. For a more comfortable angle, he shoves the other pillow under Sherlock's hips, grabs his knees and puts his legs over his shoulders. Pressing a few tender kisses on Sherlock's shin, he grabs his own erection at the base and strokes himself a few times, making his glans touch Sherlock's most intimate body parts. A shiver visibly runs through Sherlock when it touches his cock, testicles and perineum.

Mindful, John positions himself and slowly presses his hips forward, pushing against the ring of muscles. When he sees Sherlock gasp and twitch, he pauses, stroking distractingly at Sherlock's erect penis.

Sherlock's hands claw into every bit of John he can get a hold of, pulls him closer when he's slow, and holds him back when his body protests.

John has the presence of mind to grab the tube of lube and drops a little more of the content between them. His head is afloat a sea of adrenaline and endorphins. Excitement burns through each of his cells and makes his tense muscles burn up from within. He almost loses his mind at the tantalizing tightness and heat, but it's easier with the extra lube and he sinks completely into the other body, wrenching a moan from Sherlock.

Something in his chest contracts painfully when he sees Sherlock turn his head to one side, eyes squeezed shut and panting. The dark curls stick to his forehead, sweat collecting at his temples. The high cheekbones are very red, the lips sore and swollen from countless kisses.

"Look at me," John demands, his voice barely more than a rough croak.

Sherlock does as he's told and opens his eyes, turning his head towards John. He nods curtly as if to make John understand that everything is alright. His lips are trembling.

Slowly and carefully, John begins to rotate his hips. Enjoying the intense feeling, he strokes Sherlock's quivering body, fascinated by every last movement, every twitching muscle. Sherlock's erection, which has eased a bit, comes to life again under John's grip and swells. A drop of pre-ejaculate forms on the reddened tip and glistens in the glow of the lamp that stands on the bedside table. John swipes his thumb over it and deliberately stimulates the frenulum which makes Sherlock squirm ecstatically under him.

He licks the rest of the moisture off his thumb, leans over Sherlock and kisses him hard. Sherlock's knees almost come to rest on his chest. Completely unable to move under the demanding body of his lover, completely exposed to his thrusts, he returns the kiss with abandon. Greedy, John inhales Sherlock's heated breath and the unfiltered sounds that bubble pass his lips. John vaguely realises he's babbling something, disjointed bits of words spilling out of him. He seals Sherlock's lips with his, kisses the sweaty skin.

Sherlock's hand on his neck holds him close to his pliant body, nails clawing into his skin. The muscles in his arms protest under the weight he's supporting but John doesn't care. He’s too fascinated by the spectacle that is Sherlock. Over and over again, his mouth is in contact with Sherlock's skin, enjoying the salt and Sherlock's very own taste.

All he feels is the heat between their bodies, the electricity that jumps from nerve ending to nerve ending and makes sparks dance between them. His arousal grows stronger and stronger inside him, bursting out of him in thrusting motions as he holds Sherlock close to him. He penetrates the willing body again and again, hard, and sucks the whimpers and moans from Sherlock’s sore lips, breathing in his air.

"John!"

Despair in the voice, dancing on the brink. John tries to balance on that small ridge, delaying his climax for as long as he can until something seems to burst in him. The orgasm breaks over him in a wave, flushing through every fibre of his being and drowning him in pure ecstasy. His muscles clench again and again. Satisfying tingles spread out from the middle of his body. Panting, he hovers over Sherlock and fights for a moment against a spell of dizziness before coming back to himself. Dazed, he arranges Sherlock's legs around his hips and kisses him, clinging tightly to his body.

Hands on his face and hair, lips on his forehead, his cheek, his mouth. Ocean blue eyes are anchored to his, fascinated and loving.

Kissing his neck and clavicle, John strokes Sherlock's chest and side. He sits up, contemplating the outstretched body beneath him as his fingertips caress Sherlock's painfully hard erection. Sherlock gasps as a hand twists around it, rubbing it up and down, while the fingers of the other hand dig into his quivering hip. It doesn’t take long before Sherlock squirms and, with a groan, throws his head back and arches his back. Cum splashes over his stomach and under his chin.

John doesn’t let go of him until the last drop trickles over his fingers. Only then does he slip out of Sherlock and let himself roll on the bed next to him, taking a deep breath. Sherlock's arms and legs wrap around his body as a matter of course and he clings tightly to John, hiding his face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. Hot breaths brush against John's skin. He leisurely strokes the sweaty skin and feels the slight vibration of the breathing and the ebbing ecstasy beneath. He puts his hand under Sherlock's chin and pulls it up to kiss him. Sherlock's lips are soft and yielding, returning the kiss almost shyly.

Countless minutes pass during which they lie next to each other and enjoy their newfound intimacy. John’s nose tip nuzzles Sherlock's cheek and he looks at his pensive his face, gets lost in the watery blue eyes. As John tries to manoeuvre himself into a more comfortable position, Sherlock clings even tighter to him, pulling him inexorably closer to his own body. "Don’t go."

The fear he clearly hears in his voice stabs through John’s heart. The thought of Sherlock wanting him all this time while he had believed it impossible is another painful stab. How unnecessary all this uncertainty and worry has been in retrospect, it’s laughable. And yet, it was an important part of the whole process that ultimately brought them together.

"Never," he whispers close to Sherlock's ear and sinks back into the embrace.

+++

... loved.

 


End file.
